


you said there'd be cake

by flintandfuss



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actual Disaster Simon Snow, Fights and Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintandfuss/pseuds/flintandfuss
Summary: Every ship needs an “if we pretend to be engaged, we can get free wedding cake!” fic. This is Snowbaz’s.Simon Snow would do just about anything for free cake. That’s all this is about . . . right?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 138





	you said there'd be cake

**Author's Note:**

> Ngl, this was a crack idea that I ended up taking way too seriously. #storyofmylife

The question has been eating at me for weeks. Ever since Shepard and I popped into my favorite bakery and got to talking. But I never know quite how to bring it up. I mean, it’s _Baz._ I can’t just come right out and ask. He needs to know I’ve thought this through. That I’m not just charging into things without looking where I’m going. Where _we_ might be going.

The problem is that I can’t exactly practice, can I? I mean, can you imagine me having this conversation in front of a mirror, while my face goes awkward and red? Or worse, asking Penny for help? I’d get all up in my head—or she would—and it’d come out wrong no matter what I did. Besides, every time I think too hard about Baz’s reaction my edges start to fuzz—like, in spite of everything, I still might manage to go off.

Tension clings to my wings like raindrops. Or sweat. Can wings sweat? Maybe I should ask Baz that instead. We could call up Penny, take a trip to see Shep's dragon friend in Wales . . .

No. If I don't talk to Baz now, I never will.

Shaking out my wings, I push into our apartment. Baz is lounging on the sofa reading a book and looking positively scrummy in Agatha’s old lacrosse sweatshirt. I’m positive he only started wearing it so I’d stop, but it looks good on him. Comfortable. Familiar. 

“Hey, Baz?” That’s good. I sound normal. Like I haven’t spent the last two hours walking circles around the block to put this off.

He turns the page.

“Baz,” I say again, louder. I know he heard me the first time. Wanker. This is probably payback for not texting him I’d be late.

It takes an age before he marks his place and smiles up at me—still standing awkwardly by the door—but his smile burns up my annoyance for making me wait. It’s his Simon smile; his “welcome back, love” smile. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be used to Baz looking at me like that. Like I’m his entire world and that’s right and good and unchangeable. That smile burns away everything, every thought in my head and bad feeling in my body until I could almost just _say it._

“You’re back late. Is your boss being a prat again?”

When I shake my head, it dislodges the uncomplicated pleasure his smile kindled in me. _Ask him now,_ I tell myself, _before you get all worked up again._

I swallow. My throat feels full of crumbs and slightly sour, like I’ve eaten a plate of scones and not realized ‘til I was done that I forgot the milk. Words are queued up, waiting impatiently for their turn, but the bloody crumbs won’t budge up to give them room.

Baz’s smile shrinks, going wonky ‘round the edges, like I’m acting strange and he’s worried. I mean, I am acting strange, but he shouldn’t be worried.

He abandons his book and comes closer. My body urges me to brace myself against the door, but I push down the feeling and meet him halfway.

“All right, love?” He reaches for me, pauses, then proceeds more slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don’t want to. His fingers are cool and familiar, just what I need. He cups my neck gently, stroking along my jaw. His eyes are grey and concerned and so lovely. 

Baz loves me. He’s told me. _You’ve ruined me for anyone else, Snow. I’ll love you until the world spins off its axis. I’ll love you even then._

However much I cock this up, it won't change that. We’re long past me trying.

I swallow, heart thudding fast enough that his brows furrow. I reach up to hold Baz’s hand against my skin, and suddenly words are crowding my mouth and shoving past my lips. 

“So I was talking to Shepard, right? At that bakery where we got our Christmas pudding. And he was going on about this American film. And the couple—well, they weren’t a couple, really; not ‘til the end—but they pretended to get engaged because their families wouldn’t stop harping about settling down and finding someone nice. But then everything got all bollocksed up. Jealous exes and fistfights and—” 

Baz tugs his hand away. I lose my train of thought trying to chase it, but he’s only pushing the hair from my eyes. He looks relieved and annoyed and unrepentantly fond. 

My face goes hot. I anchor my hands in his shirt, then hurry on before I forget my point entirely. “So they wind up at this bakery, yeah? Tell them it’s for their wedding, and the shop sets them up with all sorts of cakes and puddings, free samples like you wouldn’t believe. Raspberry and lemon drizzle and double chocolate.” My stomach swoops and I can’t tell if it’s nerves or hunger. Probably both. “And I was thinking—well, I thought, 'what if I—if _we—'”_

“Take a breath, Snow,” Baz interrupts. Thank magick. I was about to truly go off the rails there. “So you were late because you were off playing film critic with Bunce’s boyfriend?”

“No, that was ages ago. I only meant—” The blasted crumbs are back. "Er, how about it?” 

Baz’s hands drop to mine, easing my grip on his shirt. My pinkies dip down to busy themselves with his belt loops.

“How about _what,_ Snow? You’ve said nothing but utter nonsense since you got home.” He squeezes my hands, looking suddenly wary. “Did someone ‘few sandwiches short of a picnic’ you?”

_“No.”_

Why is this so hard? It’s _Baz._

Oh, right. Because it’s Baz. I _need_ him to say yes. 

“I just thought, you know.” One hand pulls free and flaps about. My veins are buzzing so frantically I wonder if my fingers might fly right off. “I could pop by the bakery tomorrow and set it all up. If you want.” He looks more confused than ever. “The, er, cake,” I add lamely.

Baz takes a step back. 

No, that’s not what I want. Come back.

“Cake.” His voice is flat. Why is his voice so flat? 

_Try harder, Simon._

“Cake,” I echo, closing the gap. I sound desperate. I am desperate. I’m botching this up. 

I should cut my losses and try again later. Regroup. Bash my head against a wall. But I can’t seem to stop myself. 

“The owners know me. They like me. I think they’d fit us in if we told them we were—y’know.” I make another aborted gesture, making sure to wiggle _that finger_ so he’ll get the point.

“I don’t know, Snow,” Baz says icily. “If we told them we were what?”

Can’t he see I’m trying? I might not get the words right, but that doesn’t matter. Not to Baz. Not really. 

“You know.” I wince. “That we’re engaged.” 

Baz crosses his arms. His expression is so far from what I want it to be, and I don’t know how it got there. I’d thought Baz might actually _want_ — 

“Let me get this straight,” he says cooly. “You want us to lie about our relationship to hardworking business owners—people we’ll never be able to do business with again or risk exposure—for a reward of food that I’m perfectly capable of purchasing?” 

“No!” Merlin and Morgana, no wonder he looks so cross. This is a bloody disaster. “No, that’s not what I meant.” 

His stupid, perfect eyebrow tells me he’s far from pleased. Then he tells me himself. “Snow, I can’t think of a single other way to interpret the mess that just came out of your mouth.” 

“Don’t be a prat, Baz,” I snap. I can’t help it. I’ve never been very good at talking, and my nerves are stabbing needles all over my wings and down my spine, and on top of everything, Baz has decided to be difficult. 

His eyebrow climbs higher. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“If you’re not asking me to lie,” he asks, as cool and calm as ever, “how do you propose we get your cake?” 

He practically sneers the word "cake," but “propose” is the stick in the spinning spoke of my brain. It judders my thoughts to a halt, creaking ominously.

“Yes! That exactly.” 

_“What_ exactly, Snow? All you’ve done is blather endlessly about terrible movies and terrible couples who manipulate shopkeepers to get fairy cakes.” 

His patience is wearing thin. Mine has vanished entirely. 

“I don’t care about the bloody cake!” My tail is lashing. I have to snatch it up so I don’t hit him with the spade. “I care about cake with _you._ For-sodding-ever!”

That shuts him right up. 

Shuts me up, too. “Er…”

It was supposed to be _romantic,_ not . . . whatever that was.

I cross my arms. He uncrosses his. We’re both shifting like we might move, but neither of us knows which direction to go.

“You—” Now Baz is the one struggling for words. His face is shuttered, but hope bleeds through the cracks. My heart squeezes inside my chest. “Simon, what are you saying?”

“I love you, Baz.” I should have led with that, but better late than never. “And I want—” I step forward, catching his face in my hands. I’m afraid he’ll pull away, but the fight’s gone out of us both. “I want to go to the bakery and pick out a cake. I want to dig it out of the freezer on our first anniversary and listen to you complain about it until I finish licking crumbs off the plate. I want to bake you terrible birthday cakes every year until we figure out whether dragon-mage hybrids are as immortal as you. I want to keep on making them every year for as long as we’ve got.”

Baz is tearing up, and that shouldn’t make me feel good, but it does. Relief surges through me, nipped at the heels by a giddiness so light I feel like I might float away. 

“Baz,” I say softly, brushing his lip with my thumb. I’m thinking about the first time I saw his fangs, sharing truths on his bed in Hampshire. I’m thinking about those lips on my temple, my neck, my mouth. Forever. “Baz, I want to marry you.” 

He’s well and truly crying now, and it feels so good. Like I haven’t fucked this up after all. Like I’ve finally managed to say something right.

“With cake?” He’s trying to sound sarcastic, but his words are all choked up.

I nod. I’m fighting a grin at how daft we both are. “With cake.” 

“I—yeah. All right.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. It scrapes through my chest, over the place where his name is carved between my ribs. _“Yes.”_ And then, just to be a shit, I’m sure, he adds, "Go ahead and ring the bakery, Simon.” 

But it doesn’t matter, because he’s said _yes._ And he’s kissing me, sweet and heavy like the richest buttercream, and I’m kissing him back because he tastes so _good_ and I can’t get enough.

But that’s okay. I don’t have to. I can taste Baz anytime I want. For-sodding-ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. Writing for a new fandom is tough, y'all. I'm still learning the characters' voices, so feel free to nudge me in the right direction. Or if you just want to talk Carry On, you can hmu on [tumblr](https://flintandfuss.tumblr.com/)  
> . I'm always down to fangirl :D


End file.
